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I squirmed as I listened, but didn't move to help. I didn't want to look at him. Feeling him would be more than enough. Too much, on its own.
He seemed to agree, butting up against my entrance with no foreplay at all.
Good.
I was wet enough for him to ease inside of me. Just the idea of this hate sex did that to me.
Still, the size and suddenness of him was almost painful at first.
I welcomed the discomfort, leaning down to press my cheek hard against the hot metal of his car as he invaded me. I hadn't wanted this to feel good. That was not the point of this.
He pressed a hand to the small of my back as he started to move heavily, his breath ragged as he pounded his rage straight into me with succinct, brutal thrusts.
The brutality I welcomed. Every savage plunge in and out, every jarring contact of my hipbones against heated metal, every rough slide of my nipples against my thin dress as they rubbed into the hood of the car, my cheekbone digging in until I was sure it would bruise, my nails scoring into his perfect paint job with enough zeal to break them.
All of it only added to my perverse pleasure in the damaging exchange.
Hate sex at its finest.
Unfortunately, it was stimulating enough to get me off and fast. I told myself it was the booze that'd primed me so quickly for it, but of course I knew better.
I tried to hold back, bit my lip and tensed up, but each forceful plunge in, every perfect drag out, all of the sounds he was making, the helpless moans escaping him with every desperate movement, were too much for me.
I came, fast and sudden, letting out an anguished cry.
He cursed, thrusting harder, faster, again, again, again, and started to come, calling out my name as though he had the right.
After, I just lay there for the longest time, eyes wide open, staring out at the night with Dante draped heavily against my back, still inside of me, his mouth close to my ear.
I listened to the familiar pants of his breath as they went from jagged and wild to soft and even while we slowly recovered from the destructive encounter.
Eventually he spoke, "You didn't even look at the sunset. You kept your head down the entire time."
I shuddered. The bastard's casual, almost amused tone got to me.
His release had helped him get his temper in hand, which had not been the point.
"Get off of me," I snarled at him.
He didn't listen. Instead he brushed my hair to the side and started kissing my neck, his lips tender, devastating, as they began to move down to my nape, then along my shoulder.
"Time's up, lover," I made my tremulous voice as hard as I could manage. "I need to get back to my date."
He didn't like that. In fact, he stiffened and straightened, sliding out of me with a decisive swiftness that made me gasp.
Good. His rage was back, which had been my intent.
I wanted, expected, needed him to get off me then, to go away, to never touch me again.
But of course that was not what he did. Not even close.
His big, strong, familiar, despised hands turned me over onto my back.
As my torso was exposed, my body instinctively started to curl in on itself.
He wasn't having it. He pinned my shoulders, moving his hips between my thighs before I could muster up the energy to maneuver away.
His chest pressed to my breasts right as his lips took mine.
